"Do you know the feller ?" Winston shook his head, his own steady gaze riveted upon Farnham.
Deliberately the two climbed the low ore-dump side by side, and came forth on top into the full glare of the sun.

Hicks's Winchester sank to a level, his wicked old eye peering along the polished barrel.
"I 'll have to ask ye ter stop right thar, gents," he said, genially, drawing back the hammer with a sharp click.

"Ye 're trespassin' on my property." The two men came to an instant halt, Farnham smiling unpleasantly, his hands buried in his pockets.

His companion hastily shoved back his hat, as though in surprise at the summons, revealing a broad, ruddy face, shadowed by iron-gray whiskers.

Hicks half lowered his gun, giving vent to a smothered oath.
"By God, it's the sheriff!" he muttered, in complete bewilderment.
"What the hell are we up against ?" There was an interval of intense silence, both parties gazing at each other, the one side startled, unnerved, the other cool, contemptuous.
It was the sheriff who first spoke, standing firmly on his short legs, and quietly stroking his beard.
"You probably recognize me, Bill Hicks," he said, calmly, "and it might be just as healthy for you to lower that gun.